_Town._ I do: but upon condition your jealous fit never returns. To a jealous man a whisper is evidence, and a dream demonstration. A civil letter makes him thoughtful, an innocent visit mad. I shall try you, Mr. Fossile; for don't think I'll be deny'd company. _Foss._ Nay, prithee, my dear; I own I have abused thee. But lest my marriage, and this simple story should take air in the neighbourhood, to morrow we will retire into the country together, till the secret is blown over. I am call'd to a patient. In less than half an hour I'll be with you again, my dear. [_Exit Fossile._ _Town._ Plotwell's letter had like to have ruin'd me. 'Twas a neglect in me, not to intrust him with the secret of my marriage. A jealous bridegroom! every poison has its antidote; as credulity is the cause, so it shall be the cure of his jealousy. To morrow I must be spirited away into the country; I'll immediately let Plotwell know of my distress: and this little time with opportunity, even on his wedding-day, shall finish him a compleat husband. Intrigue assist me! and I'll act a revenge that might have been worthy the most celebrated wife in Boccace. Enter PLOTWELL and CLINKET. Hah! Plotwell! which way got he hither? I must caution him to be upon his guard. _Plot._ Madam, I am agreeably surpriz'd to find you here. _Town._ Me, Sir? you are certainly mistaken, for I don't remember I ever saw you before. _Plot._ Madam, I beg your pardon. How like a truth sounds a lye from the tongue of a fine woman. [_Aside._ _Clink._ This, Madam, is Mr. Plotwell; a Gentleman who is so infinitely obliging, as to introduce my play on the theatre, by fathering the unworthy issue of my muse, at the reading it this morning. _Plot._ I should be proud, madam, to be a real father to any of your productions. _Clink._ Mighty just. Ha, ha, ha. You know, Mr. Plotwell, that both a parrot and a player can utter human sounds, but we allow neither of them to be a judge of wit. Yet some of those people have had the assurance to deny almost all my performances the privilege of being acted. Ah! what a _Goût de travers_ rules the understanding of the illiterate! _Plot._ There are some, madam, that nauseate the smell of a rose. [_Whenever Plotwell and Townley endeavour to talk, she interrupts them._ _Clink._ If this piece be not rais'd to the sublime, let me henceforth be stigmatiz'd as a reptile in the dust of mediocrity. I am persuaded, Sir, your adopted child will do you no dishonour. _Town._ Pray, madam, what is the subject? _Clink._ Oh! beyond every thing. So adapted for tragical machines! so proper to excite the passions! not in the least encumber'd with episodes! the vraysemblance and the miraculous are linkt together with such propriety. _Town._ But the subject, madam? _Clink._ The universal Deluge, I chose that of Deucalion and Pyrrha, because neither our stage nor actors are hallow'd enough for sacred story. _Plot._ But, madam---- [_To Townley._